


Look What You've Got Me Doing

by voodoochild



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Blow Jobs, Community: kink_bingo, Dirty Talk, F/M, Frottage, Prostitution, Roleplay, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex has a long and storied history of being mistaken for a hooker. There's probably a reason for that. Jim, as per usual, exploits that for his own personal gain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look What You've Got Me Doing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo, for the prompt "rubbing/grinding". Title from Thea Gilmore's "Call Me Your Darling". Takes place in that shadowy alternate universe where Alex woke up to Keats in 3.01 and subsequently chose him, becoming his DI.
> 
> Warnings: Contains multiple kinks, including emotional manipulation, frottage, dirtytalk, hooker/client roleplay, and exhibitionism.

He starts pushing her boundaries a month into their partnership.

Alex is brilliant, in and out of bed, but he doesn't just want a subordinate. He wants a partner, and for that, she needs to get out of her comfort zone. He thinks he's waited long enough that she's almost entirely forgotten Fenchurch - Chris and Ray and Terry and Bammo and Poirot and Viv just former co-workers, Gene the distant boss she didn't mind working for, but had no personal connection to. At Whitechapel, she and Shaz are thick as thieves, and she's gotten less wary of the other officers (DS Turner and DCs Anderson and Marlowe).

She's just about ripe for the next step: a careful targeting - and eliminating - of the great majority of shame she still feels about their relationship. She's from a time where it wasn't unheard of to have a female Inspector (or Chief Inspector, but she's not there yet), but the insinuation was that she'd gotten her promotion lying on her back. She wants to earn Whitechapel's respect on her own, not through him, and he can't blame her.

A moral stance is an admirable one, but if she's ever going to shine, she's going to have to learn that when you have the power, you make the morals. One man's "fornication with superior officers" is another man's "utilizing all available resources for the betterment of oneself".

Not to mention that interdepartmental fraternization, in the real world, isn't a nasty little secret. A few more months away from the dinosaur misogynism of Gene Hunt will help with that, but it's a slow process.

Slow, but absolutely worthwhile.

They're curled up on her couch, her lying with her back to his chest, his hands all over her. Not directly touching her, but just petting her, lazy and slow. Enjoying the slow burn, the soft shifting against him whenever he grazes a particularly sensitive spot. The shiver that goes up his spine at her fingers against his, tangling and stroking teasingly over his skin.

They're talking about nothing in particular until he kisses her shoulder, then below her ear, and asks: "If you could do anything to me, anything at all, what would it be? Or have me do anything to you? I mean it. No limits. Anything you want. Anything you've even only wondered about."

And she's laughing, nervous, starts off with something tiny. She tells him about the one time she and Peter tried roleplaying, she the stern copper and he the repentant criminal. There's a funny aside about losing her warrant card in the Thames and having to replace it that he laughs at in all the right places, but he's looking for more. He gets it when she mentions how it would be fun to go even more outrageous, dress up and prearrange a public meeting, no one would know they weren't those people.

He hums in response. "It has possibilities. What do you think you'd like to be? Naughty teacher? High-powered society girl out slumming it? Or we could go the hooker route - you could be hiring an escort?"

"Or you could," she answers, voice tight.

It's probably a good thing that she can't see his face, but he's sure his eyebrows are about at his hairline. Oh, this has promise.

"So _that's_ how it is?" He reaches up, strokes her hair back, whispers very close and soft in her ear, "Are you a tart, Alex?"

And this volcanic little shiver.

"You are, aren't you?" And there's very little he doesn't already know about her, at least in the general outline he's gleaned, but all the fun is in getting her to confess. "It's all right, you know. I think you'd make a bloody amazing tart. And you'd enjoy every bit of it, strutting around in a short skirt and fuck me heels, knowing every man on the street was looking right at you." His hand is on her shoulder, thumb sweeping across her skin and digging into the muscle. "I'd like it, too. Knowing I was the punter you were with."

There's this point you always get to with her, where she switches off "DI Drake" and switches on "Alex". It's easier with alcohol, but he can pretty much pinpoint it to within a second. Which is right about - now.

"Would you, now? Pay for it? For a night with me, make me do whatever you wanted?"

"Oh, Alex." And maybe his voice gets a tiny bit rougher, even as he's still rubbing her shoulder almost gently. "You sure you know what you're offering there, sweetheart?"

She clears her throat audibly. "Why don't you - why don't you tell me and we'll see?"

He could easily shock her, wouldn't be too difficult, but that's not what he wants. He wants her aroused, not suspicious, and it's a little too early to break out some of the things he wants to do to her. So he continues to pet her, hand moving upward to stroke at the skin of her throat.

"Are you asking me what I'd do if I could do anything to you? Or are we still talking hypothetically, with you as my hooker?"

"Hypothetically." And she's wriggling like a nervous little girl, now, knees pressed together, almost shying away from his touch. "Hypothetically speaking. I think I'd want to know."

He kisses the back of her neck, teeth scraping just gently over the skin there. "What if I wouldn't tell you?"

She sounds just slightly calmer, back on firmer ground. "Well, then I wouldn't go with you."

His hand tightens fractionally, just enough to feel the pulse jump beneath her skin.

"How much?"

"What?"

And he's pushing now, he knows he is, but he's almost positive he has her: "How much for you to go with me no questions asked?"

"That wouldn't be very safe," she says, biting down on her lower lip. "You could be anyone. How would I know you weren't a serial killer?"

"You could trust me, Alex."

She laughs at that. "You're a stranger. Never seen you before in my life."

"But you were ready to go off with me."

And that gets to her, speeds up her breathing, because he knows her. She'd do it - given the proper environment and the precise amount of encouragement, she would. Even if he didn't already know about her exhibitionist kink (because _there's_ a fantasy to try and get out of her, but all good things and whatnot), he'd bet decent money that she'd enjoy playing a hooker. Good girl resolve will out, and he's never met a good girl who hadn't wanted to go bad, even in controlled circumstances.

He decides to push it, shifts her atop him to let her arse rub right against his cock, lets his fingers play over her throat. "You're a big girl, Alex. Carry a gun and all. Telling me you couldn't take care of yourself if some bloke got too rough?"

She shivers, hips moving. "I would. But some street girl wouldn't know how. She'd be more choosy who she went off with."

His free hand settles at her waist, fingers spread from her ribcage to the curve of her hip, the hand on her throat pausing. Alex hums softly in her throat, a sound like something falling into place, and goes still against him.

"No one's going to hurt you," he says. "We're only talking, aren't we?"

"Of course."

But her voice is uncertain, and he thinks, not for the first time, how lucky he is to have gotten her away from Hunt. Whatever rough version of this he's almost certain they played - no one ever accused the man of missing an opportunity - it's as good as the first time for her now. This will not be a clumsy attempt to capitalize on how good she'd look as a prostitute; her body's lovely, but he wants her head in this, too.

"So stop worrying about what some other girl wouldn't do." He lets his voice drop, coarser and more intimate than he'd ever be heard in public. "I came out tonight looking for one who will. Why d'you think I chose you? Because anyone can tell what you really are."

She swallows hard; her hips shift, dragging friction against his cock. "It's going to cost you," she says, all in a rush, and he has her.

"Glad to hear it." His grip tightens infinitesimally against her throat, just enough to feel her pulse racing. "Once I pay for you, Alex, whose are you?"

"Yours."

Her breathing is so shallow; quick, excited little breaths that she makes when she's worked up, and she's got to be, considering she's got no friction against her cunt. She's trying, though, restless motions of her hips, legs pressed together. He considers slipping his fingers up her skirt, give her that extra bit that will drive her crazy, but he's enjoying her full attention.

"Lovely," he says, cupping her breast in one hand, teasing at her nipple through the cloth of her blouse and bra. She shoves the blouse to one side, her bra downward, and moans when he touches her bare skin. He likes when she takes charge a little; it's half the reason he has designs on letting her cuff him one of these days.

"Then it'll be 200 quid." She says it quick, so matter of fact that he has to remember they're still talking hypothetically. "Up front, if you please."

Laughing, he pinches her nipple, enjoying her deep groan and snaking of her hips back and forth. "High-class girl, are we? I hope you're dressed the part."

"I, fuck, I could be." She tries to turn over, struggles when he wraps an arm around her waist to pin her down. "Jim -"

"Not yet." He presses fingers to her lips, stifling her outraged little cry, and nips hard at her bare shoulder. "I'm quite enjoying this as is. Tell me about what you're wearing."

She laughs, desperate and high-pitched, and grinds back deliberately against him; he has to shut his eyes, suck in a deep breath through his teeth, to fight off the urge to roll her over and pin her.

"God, I _am_ going to make you pay for this. I, mmm. It's a red dress. Short. Shoes to match. Black stockings."

"And how about under that?"

"Who says there's anything?"

And he must admit, the image nearly stops him dead, despite - because of - the sheer obviousness of it. "Nice try." He slaps lightly at the curve of her hip, enjoying the way she gasps. "But the skirt I'm imagining, you'd be in custody before you made it to the corner. What are you wearing under it?"

A filthy little laugh, the kind that goes straight to his cock. "Black silk knickers. What I wouldn't give for a boyshort style, they do wonders for my arse."

Her arse doesn't need the help. Nor have boyshort-style knickers come into fashion. That's not for a good decade and a half, and she's got to be careful about that - though he has to thoroughly agree with her, she'd look spectacular in them. The knickers she's wearing right now also look excellent; pink cotton, and he itches to touch her and find out how wet she's gotten.

"Mmm, black silk knickers to match the stockings. Gorgeous. What about suspenders?"

"Those, too," she agrees, hips moving in a tight little circle, grinding against him. Fuck, he's hard, throbbing against his inseam in frustration, and her legs tangle in his, bare thigh pale against his suit trousers. He grips her breast harder, rolling the nipple between his fingers and enjoying the way she cries out. "Christ, Jim, please-"

He hushes her, mouth sliding against hers in a messy kiss. The angle's all wrong, neither of them can get the contact they need, and he finally lets her turn over, straddle him and press hot and wet right against him. She bites at his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth urgently, hips canting against his. He gets a hand between them, shoves her skirt up and tugs her knickers down, shocked at the slickness that he can feel through his trousers.

Oh, this is going to be _filthy_.

"Paid my 200 quid, darling," he pants, hand in her hair as she kicks her knickers off. "Can do what I like. So just listen - we go off, right? Straight to my car. What happens?"

"What do you - oh, you wanker, let me - what do you want to happen?"

He thrusts against her, his trousers wet on both sides now, thinks about how she'll be rubbed raw when they're finished. She knows it, too; it comes out in her desperate little shudder, her high moans and cries.

"Think I'd like to bend you over the bonnet of my car. Park it in a little back alley, then have you right there, where anyone could see."

Her mouth shapes a silent little 'o'; she freezes, her hips pressed forward hard against his cock, and from the look in her eyes the friction must be half-killing her. He could bring her off now with a word, a fingertip, he can just tell, but he's having far too much fun.

"That work for you?" he says instead, and kisses the desperate laughter out of her mouth.

Whatever she was going to say is lost in an incoherent moan as she shakes against him. She swallows, resting her head against his, and he tries to ignore the little flip his stomach does (and, all right, the twitch in his cock) at her vulnerability.

She tries again, voice plaintive and echoing through her flat. "Y-You know it does, just, please, I need to-"

"Since you asked so nicely . . ."

And he tries to slide his fingers down to bring her off, but she's way ahead of him. Thumb brushing over her clit, two fingers buried to the knuckle, she shudders and moans and he loves watching her. She works herself on her hand, and tightens up hard, coming with a high cry that draws a shiver down his spine.

She melts in stages, her eyes fluttering closed, legs wrapping tighter around his. Her hands have come up to cup his jaw, one thumb stroking against the grain of his stubble (he'd never seen the point of letting one's facial hair grow just the slightest bit until he'd seen how crazy it drove her, the burn against her skin and cunt). He turns his head to capture her fingers with his mouth, sucks the wetness off of them, savoring the bitter taste on his tongue.

"Bastard," she says, low and affectionate, and presses her mouth against his throat.

He grins, smooths a strand of her hair away from her face. "Tart. Which reminds me-"

"Shit," she curses, trying to get her breathing back under control. Her hips twitch as he shifts beneath her, still hard. "You're not letting me off the hook for this, are you?"

He's really not.

"And ruin the perfectly delicious mental image I have in my head? I think you could stand to hear a little more, couldn't you?"

"Well . . ."

And she wriggles against him, dripping hot and wet and so fucking good that he can't wait any longer, has to unzip his trousers and shove them down. It's so incongruously, _humanly_ awkward, but the first burning touch of his cock against damp curls, sliding back and forth and teasing at her cunt? Worth every solitary second of effort he's put into cultivating her.

"So, I've got you right there," his voice pitched lower. "Skirt up. Knickers off to the side. Right out in the open. Anyone walking by could turn their head and see you just like that. And you know what, Alex?"

"What?" She grinds down against him, half-deliberately, working a helpless little rhythm against his cock; he groans, twists his hand into her hair and pulls her head back, making her gasp.

"I'm going to make you earn your money."

She swallows hard, licks her lips, and if he could put a frame around the way she looks right now, all skin and eyes and that full, bruised mouth--

Oh, he wishes he'd thought of this sooner.

"On second thought," he says, and lets her go, grinning when she leans in and bites his shoulder in retaliation. "I think I'm getting ahead of myself."

"And how's that?" Entirely too steady-voiced for her situation, and he almost can't stand that gift she has for pulling her dignity back from the edge. She tilts her hips forward, slow and surprisingly measured, her lashes flickering when the drag of it hits her; he hisses through his teeth, the sweet-wet friction driving little shocks through him.

"Alex, you know me better than that." He reaches down between them, rolls the pad of his thumb over her clit until she gives a little stuttering gasp; tries to avoid too obviously brushing against his cock. "I'd have you on your knees first."

She exhales a long, shaky "oh" of surprise, one that starts out high and startled and ends as a deep purr in her throat. Rolls her hips insistently against his hand, just enough to wind herself back up again, until she's biting her lip through a second, sharp climax. He almost - _almost_ \- cries out when she goes stock-still against him. Fuck, his hand's soaked and all he can smell is her, and he can't remember the last time he needed to come so badly.

But she pulls away, sits back on her knees and tugs his hand up to her mouth before he thinks to deny her. She licks herself off his skin, hot swipes of tongue he knows feel just as amazing on his cock, and kisses him to feel the way he moans and bucks against her. Knows perfectly well what tasting her wetness on her mouth will do to him.

"On my knees?" she says, pulling back for a breath. "And just what would I be doing there?"

He stutters, which is infuriating. "N-need it spelled out?"

"I want to hear you say it. Your vocabulary can get shockingly filthy when you want, DCI Keats."

Oh, she wants him to talk, does she? He knows exactly where she's going with this - the intent is quite plain to see - and well, it's better to play along if he wants to come sooner rather than later. There's a time and a place for self-restraint, and a time and a place for dominance play. Neither of them is when Inspector Alex Drake is offering you a blowjob if you tell her a bit of fantasy.

"You're sucking my cock like a good little tart," he says, tangling a hand in her hair as she moves purposefully downward. "On your knees, with your skirt still up 'round your hips. Half of London could probably see your cunt if they wanted, but they're not the ones going to fuck you."

Her tongue darts out, laps at the head of his cock, and her hand laces with his free hand, squeezing in her usual shorthand of 'lie back and let me work'. She looks up. "Like this? Am I sucking you off like this? All coy and teasing?"

"I think it's a bit late in the game for that." He runs his nails delicately down the back of her neck, loving the way it makes her tremble, and bites back a harsh little noise when she leans in and sucks him shallow and hard. "You're taking it nice and deep. All filthy like a proper whore - fuck, _Alex_ -"

She smiles at him, angelic as if she hadn't just lifted her mouth from his cock, and fits herself closer against him. Near enough that he can almost feel her lick her lips again. "Keep talking."

And he knows her well enough, by now, to be sure of what he can get away with: that she likes her hair pulled, loves it when he's close to begging; that her hands dig bruises into his hips when she wants him to lie still and let her take him down as far as she can. That there's very little she won't listen to, when she's like this.

"Like that-" She swallows, hard, and he half-loses his train of thought. "Fuck, going to do just what I want with you. Right out in the street, let everyone see the way you love it, put you over the car and show them all when I've had enough of this - you want that, I know you want that."

Her mouth speeds up, and her fingers spread out on his hips in that telltale pattern: don't move, I've got you. He can't help but thrust into her mouth, seeking wetness and heat and suction, and she pulls off, in warning. He has to behave himself if he wants her to finish him off, and he groans in acquiescence.

Two fingers tap against his hipbone, and oh, right, he has to keep talking.

"Fuck all, your mouth, just taking it like I know you can. Letting me use you like the filthy slut you are, fuck your mouth the way I'll fuck your cunt later. Cause I will. I'll pull out, bend you over, and fuck you hard as I please. And no matter how much you beg me, you won't come until I have. You'd let me come in you, wouldn't you? Dirty girl, fucking a bloke for money in an alley, no protection, sticky-wet everywhere-"

She hums, low in her throat, and the vibrations against his cock make his hands tighten in her hair. He swears, string of profanity he's really not sure was actually in English, and keeps talking as she takes him hard and deep. He can't form the words anymore, brain whiting out in absolute delicious oblivion as he comes.

The sensation is still surprising, even after all this time.

Sex is definitely one of the best things about humanity, something you miss when you go without it for - well, for however long time is down there. He's going to teach her that, too - that denial is good in small doses - but now, she's learned this lesson quite well.

Good, bad, doesn't matter. He'll take her as she is, and will not stand in judgment.

That's not his job, after all.


End file.
